A Study in España's Favoritism towards Italia del Sur
by SpanishCoatofArms
Summary: It was no secrecy that out of all the nations and ex-colonies that were ever parts or allies of the Spanish Empire, South Italy was Spain's favorite. The red tomato of his eyes, if you will. Favoritism wasn't a new concept that bore any new mystery or unknown, one can easily find the evidence of such phenomenon in any household and institution if one cares to look closely enough.
1. Chapter 1 - Queen Isabella of España

**Full Synopsis: **It was no secrecy that out of all the nations and ex-colonies that were ever parts or allies of the Spanish Empire South Italy was Spain's favorite. The red tomato of his eyes, if you will. Favoritism wasn't a new concept that bore any new mystery of unknown, one can easily find the evidence of such phenomenon in any household or institution if one cares to look closely enough; after all, it means exactly what its namesake implies.

What was not so readily obvious, however, were the effects and the far-reaching consequences on other individuals, human and fellow nations alike. Some felt his favoritism more keenly and terribly while others got away relatively unscathed. The goal of this study is to offer a deeper insight from the lens of five different individuals who bore first-hand witness to the consequences of Spain's absolute devotion to South Italy.

It is with hope that as each unique perspective is shown, a piece of the puzzle will fall in place and bring about a better understanding to the question: What does it mean to be favored by the personification of the Spanish nation?

🍅**Chapter 1 – Queen Isabella of Espa****ñ****a**🍅

🐢Warnings: Physical violence and intimidation (non-explicit)

[Inspired by that one Hetalia episode where "Her Highness" got really angry at Spain regarding Sur de Italy. This work not meant to be a reflection of the actual person in the history of Spain. Again, I took a lot of liberties and creativity with this character. Constructive reviews only, please, thank you!]

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Isabella, the reigning Queen of España, have had it with the hopeless, bungling colony that, a few days ago, had shattered yet another priceless gold sculpture. She was positively frustrated and impatient with España because he still refused to take more drastic measure in rectifying the brat's incompetence. Return him to Austria, Isabella had pleaded with him numerous times. You are draining the nation's resource and battleships and soldiers by keeping him here, this is unacceptable; España refused to budge even as his cheeks burned from the licks of the vicious whip in her hand.

She had witnessed España striking down unruly colonies before when they refused to bend their knee to the Spanish throne. For all of his strange affiliation and affection for those savage territories, España has always fulfilled his duties to the throne and the rulers before her. But when it came to Italia del Sur, España took coddling to a zealous height unfit for a personification of her great nation: For every chore he failed to do, España showered him with reassurance and more second chances. For every mess he made, España donned him in new clothes and jewels. For every Spanish word the boy purposefully mispronounced, España bestowed a plethora of kisses on his brows and temple.

"If you will not let go of that useless brat then I will order his execution."

The words have barely left Isabella's lips for a second before her back was slammed into the wall and her world bloomed with sudden pain and fright. Dimly, she thought she heard Italia del Sur screaming nearby and all she could do was stare at España, her eyes wide and jaw slack with incredulity. Even with all five knuckles and the strength of a titan crushing the collar of her dress into the brick wall next to her ear, a lop-sided, puppy grin still found its way to España's lips and teeth. Isabella couldn't see his eyes beneath the chocolate brown locks, but she imagined those emerald orbs must be luminous with unconditional adoration and gleaming pure golden warmth whenever his favorite charge is in sight…the kind of adulation she was never privy to even as his Queen.

"Romano, Her Highness and I were concluding a meeting," España breathed, the softness of his voice contrasted starkly with the hard fist near her throat.

"Why don't you go back to your chamber, mi querido? I will bring freshly made churros con leche for a mid-day desert, _sí,_" coming from anyone else, those words would have been the most benign suggestion but no living soul in that room will ever mistake it for what it truly was: A command, one that was as categorical and absolute as the same sun that blessed the great Spanish empire.

From the corner of her eyes, she thought she saw Italia del Sur opened his mouth, briefly, and then closed it; Isabella thought surely he was going to disobey España. Good, she thought viciously, let the boy defy España and suffer the wrath of the Conquistador.

"Okay," Italia del Sur acquiesced finally, voice sullen and as diminutive as his child form.

The boy knelt to the floor to pick up the fallen broom and quickly dashed out of the room as quickly as his small legs could carry him. España's gaze remained pointedly at the direction that Italia del Sur took off, never even once wavered, Isabella thought. He continued to smile as the sound of running footsteps faded away into the distance and once again, a suffocating blanket of silence descended upon her.

When España finally let go of his Queen, her knees buckled and she collapsed unceremoniously onto the floor, the thick material of the royal gown barely cushioned her fall. The rough texture of the golden dado rail almost scraped her palm as she struggled briefly regain her balance. One of the servants jerked forward, one hand reaching out for the Queen before stopping itself midair. He cast one nervous glance at España before stepping back with haste to his original post, head down and a picture perfect of somber deference.

For Isabella might be the ruling Queen but the entity before her still represents the entirety of the Spanish sovereignty.

"You will not speak about him like that again," all the warmth and adoration erstwhile have vanished from his tenor. Again, it was not an idle suggestion. Isabella thought she might have nodded, muttered a verbal response or perhaps nothing at all. Her chest was still beating a thousand miles away. Isabella stared minutely at the broken pieces of the rail next to her, breathed in softly, in and out.

Just when Isabella thought he was going to walk away to be with his precious Italia del Sur, España knelt down and took her hand into both of his. Even with all of the tenderness Isabella couldn't stop a small tremble because she knew those very same hands had just put a hole into the brick wall behind her. The red marks on his cheeks have already healed themselves. She watched as España slowly pressed a kiss on one knuckle, then another, and another; all with the exact same tenderness and reverence she received on the date of her coronation. It felt like a lifetime ago now, a memory splintered and embalmed with indignant disillusionment simmering in her chest. Each press of his lips felt like mockery.

_Lo siento, mi Reina,_ his kisses said.

_Lo siento mucho…__Pero nunca cambiaré de opinión, __mi Reina._

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🍅El Fin🍅

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Stay tuned for the next chapter on 01/10/2020


	2. Chapter 2 - England

🍅**Chapter 2 – England**🍅

🐢Warnings: Use of firearm and the context of violence surrounding it and possible historical inaccuracies

[I am aware that in Spanish, the accent is supposed to be on the letter "i" in Maria, but I prefer the pronunciation that comes with the accent on the letter 'a,' that's why it is '_Mária_' instead of '_María_.' Constructive reviews only, please, thank you!]

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_They say a Conquistador wasn't supposed to have favorite_

_That he was supposed to care for his colonies in equal measure_

_But South Italy was his - South Italy was the ultimate Achilles' heel_

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"Insurance," deadpanned England, the ship captain. "Tales traveled fast from one sea to the next, Admiral William. That Spaniard spoon fed South Italy his language and culture. He clothed him in his precious metals and crown made of kisses. And he marched his own men to their death protecting him," He gulped down the rest of the scotch and cast a glance at the whining Italian child in his arm. He solemnly swears to bring back this victory to his Queen.

"Because Spain loved him the most and that is exactly how we are going to ensure the success of our expedition. That Spanish bastard dared to make a fool out of us for the last time with Santo Domingo, and so I will take Jamaica from him." Admiral William nodded wordlessly in agreement before hauling the young personification of Jamaica. The Admiral then ordered one of his man to keep a hold on her and proceeded to follow his captain out onto the deck.

"Now here's the deal, Spain" began England as he swaggered confidently to the rail, facing the furious Conquistador who immediately trained his Mária, the Spaniard's trusty Patella Miquelet pistol, on the representative of England, "surrender this land to the British sovereignty and I just might just consider giving back this troublesome brat to you. Dare to refuse and the brat is fish food."

South Italy renewed his struggle with vigor, small hands alternated between scratching uselessly at the thick fabric of the sleeve and trying to pull himself out of England's grip. His wails competed with the sound of Jamaica crying as she, too, thrashed about trying to escape her captor's hold.

Let go of me, you ugly and foul smelly British drunkard, let me go, I said let me go, South Italy wailed piteously.

Padre, save me please padre, please save me, padre, padre, Jamaica pleaded tearfully with the Conquistador.

Stormy wind howled and the blanket of rain danced beneath the pale moonlight. A single lightning bolt suddenly struck down on the rolling body of water between the two ships. Violent flash of white smeared across the countenance of Spain, illuminating the hard lines of his scorn and the emerald green orbs narrowed dangerously in unadulterated contempt for the British entity before him. England absolutely reveled in the hatred peering from those eyes and felt himself returning a wicked grin of his own that was all teeth and nastiness.

Victory was within his grasp, England crowed internally. "Now, Spain! I am getting impatient! What's the matter, cat got your tongue? You better not be stalling for time, Spain. You've got another thing coming if you think the damn frog is going to surprise me with a sneak attack. Last I checked, that French bastard doesn't have the balls for a war with the British empire! Spain! Surrender Jamaica now and recognize that this West Indies island belong to the great British Empire! This land is mine and you know it!"

Without ever taking his eyes of the British entity, Spain flicked his wrist and pulled the trigger. A single gold-plated bullet broke free of Mária's barrel, mighty and deafening and terrible. It sliced through the air before burrowing itself into flesh and pulverized bones in its wake.

For a moment, the world slowed down to a slow, screeching halt. England stared at the Spaniard, utterly stunned to the sole of his boots and could not believe his eyes. Tried as he may the British personification could not turn his head away. It was as if he was watching a distant memory from the past, equally unreal and horrifying in its measure.

Jaw dropped and mouth frozen in a wordless scream, splatters of blood bloomed and danced like spilled oil before Jamaica's eyes. Padre? The girl breathed, her throat choked with distraught and pain that her mind still too young to understand. But the Conquistador spared no glance for his wounded colony. Fresh tears spilled from those jade green orbs as her small body slowly began to plummet into the sea. Padre! The rolling waves swallowed up the girl's cries for her father.

Stripping off his military jacket with great haste, Admiral William hollered and waited for no order as he plunged himself head-first into the water to follow the fallen Jamaica, fully intending to retrieve the child. Some of the British soldiers fumbled, frantically pulling out ropes and attempting to assist the sudden impromptu rescue mission. Staggered, England's own grip on South Italia slacked as his mind warred in disbelief.

"Did you say something."

The Spaniard's tone was flat and it bore no infliction. His pistol once again pointed directly at England. From the muzzle a thin trail of pale, ghostly gun powder smoke drifting lazily up towards the sky. Through the haze of the smoke, the Spaniard's poisonous green eyes shined with casual apathy. Mouth flat, the Spaniard was no longer wearing a scowl or a sneer. England could not find any trace or hint of regret from his countenance.

At that moment, anybody else might have thought that he looked detached, bored, as if he did not just shot down one of his own colony and could not be bothered to order his men to rescue her. None of the Spanish sailors and soldiers seemed particularly surprised at the turn of the event, saved for the Spaniard's right-handed man who stole one furtive glance at the direction of the Admiral William, swallowing a lungful of air before disappearing again below the watery surface.

Suddenly England's thought went to his own beloved Canada: His sweet, darling Canada who is not much older than Jamaica. Canada grinning with one front teeth missing and love in his cherubic voice whenever he called out to his guardian. He tried to imagine himself hurting one child in the name of protecting another..._hurting Matthew in the name of protecting Alfred_, and realized with a frightening clarity that revulsion tasted so much like bile in the back of his throat. And England thought numbly to himself, as the Conquistador squeezed the trigger and Mária's righteous bullets descended upon him, that the immortal Spaniard looked so much more like the monster in his sons' fairy tales.

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_They say a Conquistador wasn't supposed to have favorite_

_That he was supposed to care for his colonies in equal measure_

_But South Italy was his - South Italy was the ultimate Achilles' heel_

_The history book has failed to mention, however,_

_The length the Conquistador was willing to go _

_To protect his Achilles' heel_

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🍅The End🍅

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Stay tuned for the next chapter on 01/17/2020


	3. Chapter 3 - Portugal

🍅**Chapter 3 – Portugal**🍅

🐢Warnings: Angst and the impact of war on a nation's personified being and possible historical inaccuracies

[This chapter focuses primarily on the perspectives of Portugal as a fictional Hetalia character during a time of national turmoil. Effort has been taken to make certain details vague and non-specific. Constructive reviews only, please, thank you!]

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"Don't you remember, Antonio? Itália do Sul visited you yesterday. He called you a tomato bastard. And instructed you to eat more so you can regain your strength. Don't you remember, Antonio?" Something about those lies tugged painfully at his chest. And that sensation only worsened at the desperate, hopeful look on Espanha's too pale countenance. He did? Espanha whispered. Romano estuvo aquí?

Portugal thought he must be coming down with a nasty cough himself. Lifting his gaze briefly, he caught Jamaica standing by the door, a bowl of sopa de pollo in her hands and something akin to pity in her jade-colored orbs. If there was one thing that Portugal could never stand, it was pity. It always felt like spits on his face. He held her gaze for a moment and allowed a swell of irritation to reach his eyes and match his tone.

"Leave that here. I will make sure he eats," Portugal's voice broke no argument.

As soon as he heard the soft click of the bowl on the table, he reached for the utensil and scooped a small amount of what he knew without even looking were perfectly cooked and seasoned soup and vegetables. Blowing on it softly, once, twice, Portugal gingerly brought the warm nourishment to his irmão. One bite, Espanha, por favor, just one bite.

"Padre hasn't stopped asking for him, has he?" Jamaica asked, already knew the answer even as she turned around and prepared to check on her brother and sister in the living room. Argentina should still be on a phone, coordinating with her boss to dispatch another fleet of ships in the hope of evacuating more asylees. Peru's situation was much more dire as his own government was threatening to severe all diplomatic relations with padre's. English might have been her official language but to Jamaica, Espanha will always be padre.

"I love him too, you know," he probably wouldn't have caught those words if the room wasn't so stifling and unnaturally quiet, save for Antonio's labored breathing. One of Jamaica's hand gripped the door tightly and the older nation knew that she was going to leave a perfect set of indented marks on it soon.

"Maybe not as fiercely as you do. Or as complicated as Peru does, or even as unconditionally as Argentina," Jamaica barreled on, uncaring if the older nation never answer her. "But I... _We_ love him all the same. And though we might have declared independence from padre, the others and I have as much right to be here as you do, uncle."

Maybe in another day, another time, when his maninho was not suffering in his arms, he would have had the strength and the right state of mind to say a comforting word or two to the younger nation. He watched as his Antonio struggled briefly to chew and eventually managed to swallow down the food. One more bite, por favor...

"The war will be over soon," Portugal offered, wiping away at the corner of Espanha's mouth. "There is going to be a final coup followed by peace treaties and a new regime. Your padre is going to need all the help he can get in order to recover."

Silence was the only response to Portugal as he made another scoop of the vegetable. Before Jamaica can utter a word, however, he interrupted brusquely: "Go find out what you can about that brat's current status. When you locate him, take the others with you and drag him here either by the hair or the scruff of his neck, I care not which." Portugal did not have to clarify who he was referring to and neither did Jamaica have to ask. They both knew exactly who he was talking about.

Portugal returned his attention to the ailing nation on the bed and pay no more heed to the outside world. Espanha coughed wetly, each sharp exhalation must be more agonizing than the last and Portugal feared that he might just hacking up a lung or two if it doesn't subside soon. Espanha's grip on Portugal's hand was becoming more painful now, he thought perhaps he should let Antonio hold onto the blanket instead before Portugal looses a hand himself. But truthfully, the Portuguese man was long past caring about such minuscule detail.

Wiping away a new layer of sweat on Espanha's temple, he tried to get him to take a gulp of water. "Everything is going to be fine, Antonio. You may have another spike in fever soon because of the coup but you are going to make it," began Portugal, "My Prime Minister and your future boss, they are intending to sign a peace treaty. We will protect and defend each other, just you and I, Antonio. You'll see, maninho. You are going to be all better soon," a watery smile made a brave attempt to advance its way across his countenance.

Delirium continued to clouded his irmão's emerald orbs, robbing him the light of his usual vitality and Espanha shifted his gaze sluggishly towards the direction of Portugal's voice. What, Antonio? What is it? What do you need? Tell me.

"¿Dónde está...Romano?"

The spoon felt on the floor. Portugal tried to pick it up. But it fell, again.

"Por favor, mi Romano… Necesito."

Salted needles and unwanted moisture prickled at the Portuguese man's opal orbs. It took all of the strength that he didn't knew he had to hold back a sob threatening to burst free and his chest felt too taut for him to breath. Chin lifted up high and gaze rested on the ceiling above, Portugal forced himself to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, nice and slow. Espanha's confused pleads and fear continued to echo too pitifully in the all too small room and each sound pounded away at his own skull.

"... ¿Romano? Quiero Romano..."

Once again, Portugal looked down to Espanha with assurance plastered firmly on his face and noble lies ready on the tip of his tongue, whispering away into another sleepless night. Itália do Sul is on his way. He will be here before you know it, Antonio. You will get to see him in no time. Itália do Sul wants you to take more bite, Antonio. He is coming to see you. Por favor, just one more sip...

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🍅O Fim🍅

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Stay tuned for the next chapter on 01/24/2020


	4. Chapter 4 - Peru

🍅**Chapter 4 –** Perú🍅

🐢Warnings: Romano's mean and crunchy exterior (you have been warned, fair and square), emotional hurt, coarse language and possible historical inaccuracies.

[Partly inspired by Once Upon a Time. Constructive reviews only, please, thank you!]

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It was one of those unspoken taboos among his American brothers and sisters that España adores Romano, the pulchritudinous Sur de Italia, more than anything or anybody that was ever part of the Spanish empire. One simply does not utter a word about it; simply tuck it away into a box, advised Jamaica, trample and perhaps spit on it deep into the recess of the mind, she said. For the nations whose resentment or indifference for the Iberian nation were strong enough to eclipse their familial love for him, well, they have it easy. And of course, Perú wasn't part of that lucky few because his people's hatred and resentment weren't enough to do just that. Just like how he himself wasn't enough and never was he worthy of his padre's favor.

The Southern American nation rarely comes into contact with Sur de Italia and that was exactly how he preferred it. If you were to ask him, he would not be able to tell you what sparked the confrontation with the Italian nation in the first place. Maybe it was the way Sur de Italia kept lamenting on and on about España being too overbearing, simply because the Spanish nation insisted on feeding the ex-colony home-grown tomatoes by hands. Just ignore him, muttered Argentina. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched as Sur de Italia continue to twirl with the red, plum fruit with one hand and disparaging remarks kept on streaming from his foul mouth. Before he knew it, Perú found himself in a verbal pissing match with Sur de Italia in the middle of the hallway. Bystanders be damned.

"We all know the score here, Italia," a small snarl, more befitting on the muzzle of a feral animal than a nation personification, curled around Perú's mouth. "España loves you best. More than Jamaica, more than México, more than Argentina, more than me," Perú was grateful that his voice held on strong during that last part of the sentence he just uttered.

He didn't mean to say that out loud, he swore he didn't and more biting words were exchanged. The ache in his chest surged violently as if it was amplified under the light of the pitiless truth that he has been denying himself for decades. Or maybe it was the dreadful, neon light in this god awful urban building that has finally gotten to him. Distantly, he felt someone pulling at the sleeve of his shirt and another hand gripping his forearm. He thought he heard his sister calling his name and telling him to stop but Perú could not bring himself to care or heed them.

"I cannot think of a single time when padre has looked at me, or my brothers, or my sisters with even half the affection that he has singularly reserved just for you," the words might as well have been unrefined salt grinding down into the root of his teeth.

With one eye-brow raised, Sur de Italia's grip on the red, plum tomatoes tightened, though not yet enough to rupture the fruit. For a moment, he thought the Italian was going to produce his trademark sneer and walk away like he always does when confronted with a nation that he didn't care for.

"Well..." Italia began slowly. "Judging from everything the tomato bastard has ever said about you lot across the pond," a stretch of the mouth that was all teeth and snarl threatened to split his face in half. Perú felt his inside clenched painfully, bracing itself for what he knew was going to be a direct assault from Italia. Meanness and spite shone in his dark orbs. "_Maybe it's because you haven't done anything to deserve it._"

It took him a cold minute to understand what he just heard. White noise rang deafening all around him and in him, equally drowning the shocked inhalations of the surrounding bystanders and the incensed screams erupted from his hermana. Time might as well have stood perfectly still because his lungs began to smolder with the searing amber of red hurt and he forced himself to breathe. Each inhalation stung more than the last one.

His hermano, México, was having a diablo's time holding back Jamaica even with both muscular arms around her narrow waist. The outraged nation thrashed wildly, hollering equal parts of profanities and spits. Shut your fucking whore mouth, Italia! The octave of her screams soared to high heaven, threatening to rally nations of the great continent of America to usher a war of terror on Italia. Padre's wrath be damned, she declared. As if Jamaica truly believed and she probably does, with all of her passionate being and soul, that she could ever get away with harming a single strand on the brown Italian locks before padre can - and they all knew perfectly well that he absolutely will - cripple her by the kneecaps with the might of a thousand Spanish suns.

At any other time, Perú would have been impressed that Italia hasn't scurried away yet when faced with the fury as righteous as his hermana; no, Italia's stance solid, confident by the knowledge that he had, indeed, scored a direct hit on the Southern American nation. Hermano, por favor, don't listen to him, pleaded Argentina.

"Here's something that España never told you then," shrugging off the hand that were still gripping his arm from earlier, Perú closed in the distance between the two of them. The Southern American nation looked at Sur de Italia dead in the eye and with stones stringed around his heart.

"Those tomatoes you are clutching to your chest, the embodiment of connection and national identity between you and padre, the bastion that immortalized the oasis of España's eternal love and devotion to you," it was as if an invisible, cold marble hand had reached out and seized his windpipe Perú felt his voice broke and watery, "…they originated from me."

Even when the world began to blur in bitterness and spin with sins and his eyeballs grew hot from the feverish tears threatening vehemently to break free from their dam, his mouth continued to move: "I gave them to padre when I met him for the first time in the 15th century. The tomatl seeds were _my_ offering to him, the symbol of _my_ familial love and fealty for España."

Why was he telling Italia all of this?

Blows were exchanged, more words of cruelty spewed and lashes to the hearts whipped about the air that day. What the bloody hell is going on? Somebody go get Spain here right now. Ya vale hermana! Never fear, the hero is here. More voices thrown themselves into the whirlwind of red hurt and chaos. Qué esta pasando?

Stop. Just stop already, stop. But the wails wouldn't stop echoing in the back of his mind...

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🍅El Fin🍅

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Stay tuned for the next chapter on 01/31/2020


	5. Chapter 5 - France

🍅**Chapter 5 – France**🍅

🐢Warnings: Talk of alcohol, drinking habit and victim blaming (implied)

[Constructive reviews only, please, thank you!]

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The fundamental difference between his meilleur ami and him is that Espagne's love runs deep and wholly passionate right down into the very bone marrow, whereas France's amour reached far and wide and has blessed many recipients from one corner of the Earth to the next. Intensive versus Extensive - if one must simplify it to laymen's terms. Yet somehow, the two nation personifications managed to stay the best of friends in despite of everything that happened.

Being the older one of the two of them, France had tried numerous times to counsel Espagne, advised him to divide his time more equally among his colonies, to pay a little bit more attention to that Peruvian child, to find another solution to Angleterre's ultimatum during that whole mess involving Jamaica in the mid 16th century.

Once France was able to approach the then-Conquistador without the fear of losing a precious finger or getting an ax to his beautiful hair, he had scolded the Spaniard, repeatedly: That it was positively criminal to harm a beautiful nation like Jamaica and in such crude way, too. Don't repeat Angleterre's mistakes, he had said. If only France had been there, they would surely have been able to defeat Angleterre with minimum casualty. Espagne would not have had to sacrifice one colony to ensure the safety of another.

But atlas, France took another sip of his wine - what has happened, happened. No use lamenting over fermented grapes. When it comes to the feisty Italie, Espagne's judgment tends to be….less than reasonable and regrettably more skewed than an escargot shell. Hmnm…Escargots, contemplated the nation of love. Now that would be a wonderful treat to go with this wine, non?

"Another glass por favor, gracias amigo!"

France abruptly yanked his attention back to the presence, back to his drinking companion who is now gulping down another mouthful of rum black label. Out of the three members of the self-proclaimed Bad Friend Trio, Espagne used to be the one with the worst drinking practice: Just like Angleterre, when he drank, he drank to be drunk. It wasn't until recently that there has been a…unprecedented development. Nowadays, France noticed that his meilleur ami has….dare he whisper it, toned down his consumption considerably.

When pressed, France wasn't surprised by the response given to him: "Romano doesn't like it when I get too intoxicated, amigo. He said I become extra clingy, could you believe that?" Oui, absolument, France believed that because that was the Espagne he preferred the most. And France was also ready to believe that it only took Italie du Sud one attempt to get the ex-Conquistador to change his way. He also knew for a fact that several of the ex-colonies have grumbled and tried to do influence the Spaniard with zero success until, apparently, when Italie finally stepped in.

"I adore him, Francia, and all his damn flaws," Espagne trademark grin was all golden Spanish sun and honey sweetness that can compete even against his own éclair. Even when the younger nation was miles away doing god knows what with who knows what, the presence of Italie du Sud lingered around them, his name never far from Espagne's lips and his influence on the Spanish nation remained steadfast and resolute.

"Oui, mon cher, so you've told me and the bartender a dozen times now," France nodded, "speaking of which, what is this I hear from Amérique that there was an….how should I put this delicately, mon ami, an altercation between Italie and Peru at the world conference three days ago?" France had of course, heard no such news from the American. The conference was held at one of his house in Paris. The nation personification has full access to the state-of-the-art security cameras that told him exactly what went down during that disgraceful little incident. However, France was eager to hear Espagne's version of the event.

"Que?" Head tilted to one side, an emotion that France could not quite interpret flashed across those emerald green orbs before the Spaniard grinned, pausing mid drink momentarily.

"It was just a misunderstanding, amigo. Mi Romano was in a terribly foul mood that day, and Peru should have known better than to approach and upset him even more. And I should not have taken my eyes off Romano, si. There was nothing more to it," leaning back against the stool bar, the Spaniard narrowed his eyes. "Why do you ask, Francia?"

France held his meilleur ami's gaze solidly for a moment, allowing himself to take in the treacherous undertone of Espagne's words, the slumbering monster stirring behind those Spanish green orbs and he felt the hair behind his own neck stood on the ends.

Technically, Espagne's words were correct: Peru was indeed the one foolish enough to approach the foul temper Italian, unprovoked. It was a simple, frivolous at most, misunderstanding, that should not have escalated in the first place. However, it was way that Espagne presented his version of the story that sat like a heavy lead stone in France's stomach. He did not like the implication that all blames rested solely upon the Southern American nation whereas Italie was the wholly innocent party. France had watched and listened to the security tape, he knew and so did Espagne, the unmistakably insensitive retort that Italie had thrown at the other nation. It was, in France's humble opinion, an unnecessary cruelty.

"I was simply curious, mon ami. And you just said it yourself, there was nothing more to it, oui," France placated, took another sip and contented himself to do what he does best: Retreat quietly to much safer topics because he has gotten exactly what he was looking for.

The green-eyed monster hasn't fully return to its erstwhile slumber yet, snout still high in the air, sniffing lazily and tasting the molecules for anymore hint of prey. But it was nothing another glass of rum cannot fix. Darling ami, have you try the Riviere du Mat yet? Why, you simply must, oui. Let it never be said that the personification of France is not armed to the teeth with good alcohol and a deck of ever so charming conversation topics up his sleeves, always ready to disarm and neutralize at a moment's notice. And Espagne deserved nothing less than his absolute best effort.

For his meilleur ami's love runs on a single-minded pathway, everlasting, and swears to never waiver until time itself decays and nations turn ashes. But France's amour is bountiful, far-reaching and there is always more than enough for everybody and everything.

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🍅La Fin🍅


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